


shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

by merrywil



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cloak of Levitation (Marvel), Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 19:37:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrywil/pseuds/merrywil
Summary: Four times Stephen was cuddled by his friends, and once he returned the favor.  Unadulterated fluff.  Please brush and floss after reading.





	shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr (doctorstrangeaskblog):
> 
> Wong and Stephen:  *hidden by a rocky area at night*
> 
> Stephen:  So we wait here?
> 
> Wong:  Yes.  The mission target should pass nearby in twenty minutes.
> 
> Stephen:  ...ok.
> 
> Wong:  …
> 
> Stephen:  *cuddles*
> 
> Wong:  *slowly pushes him away*
> 
> Because Stephen needs cuddles, and in my little corner of the multiverse, Wong would not push him away ;-)

Exhaustion (Christine).

Wong was hoping (but not expecting) that Stephen had already finished his tasks for the day, and found his way to bed.  He was expecting that he could steal an hour or two to read and to meditate, perhaps to put his thoughts about the day into some semblance of order.

He was not expecting to find Christine Palmer ensconced on the couch in the Sanctum’s sitting room, her head bowed over a tablet and a veritable flood of papers strewn over the low table before her.

On closer reflection, it was possible that it was already Thursday.  And Stephen had mentioned that his former colleague would be stopping by (on Thursday, in fact) to review some cases of interest.  Something about such-and-such a technique they had developed, and its applications in the field.

“Doctor Palmer.”  From the brief deer-in-the-headlights look that he received, he was not the only one whose expectations had been derailed.  But the doctor recovered quickly, and he could not help but reciprocate her warm smile.

“Wong.  How many times have I told you, *please* call me Christine.”  She was not an unastute woman, Wong was aware. She watched him closely as he moved to the armchair across from the couch.  Knowingly, she shook her head. “I mean no offense, but you look like I feel after a 12 hour shift. Rough day?”

Wong hummed.  Settling into the chair with an involuntary sigh, he nodded.  “It was not...pleasant, or particularly relaxing. There are certain days of the year on which incursions from other dimensions are more likely, when the barriers between them thin.  It has always been the duty of those who practice the mystic arts to act as guardians of this dimension, but our numbers are...not as great now, as they have been.”

Christine nodded her understanding in turn.  “And that means fewer, um, sorcerers--sorry, I still haven’t quite gotten used to saying that--to share the burden.”

“Precisely.  And that means, well...that.”

Wong figured it was about time one of them acknowledged the elephant in the room.  Or in this case, neurosurgeon-turned-master of the mystic arts, who was currently absolutely dead to the world on the sofa next to his former coworker.  

Stephen Strange was still wearing his customary blue robes, apparently not having had the time to change into more casual wear before his engagement with Christine.  A tablet similar to hers had fallen down against the arm of the couch, and Wong surmised that Stephen had started his work with the best of intentions. At present, however, he was slumped in a slightly uncomfortable looking position against both the back of the sofa and Christine’s side, his head pillowed on her shoulder.

The sight was both ridiculous and--if Wong were to permit the word to enter his vocabulary--rather endearing.  Perhaps drawn by his interest, the Cloak (which Wong realized had been lurking in the room’s shadows) popped up from behind the sofa as if to inspect its chosen.

Christine laughed quietly.  “Is it odd that that doesn’t even startle me anymore?”  Becoming more serious, she gently reached out the hand not holding her tablet, almost unconsciously beginning to card it through Stephen’s hair.  “My silver fox. You’ll be grey by the time you’re fifty at this rate.”

Wong cleared his throat.  “Actually, that’s the magic, too.”  Christine met his gaze quizzically. “All magic has a price, and Stephen tends to expend more of his personal energy than he should.  It’s not particularly harmful, as long as not overdone, but it can be...draining.”

A flash of sorrow ran across her features, gone so quickly that Wong thought he might have imagined it.  Fond exasperation replaced it, and he thought that Stephen was a fortunate man, to have such a genuinely kind-hearted person as his friend.

“Well, I guess I know why he couldn’t even stay awake for more than two cases.  Here I thought I was just boring him.”

Stephen’s only response was to mumble incoherently in his sleep, and somehow burrow even *more* closely against her shoulder.  Wong debated the effort involved in retrieving his phone. The blackmail potential was considerable. In the end, he decided that they were both allowed a reprieve after today.  Summoning a book from his personal collection, he settled down to keep Christine (and the Cloak) company, as they guarded their friend’s sleep.

\--

Cold (the Cloak of Levitation).

As he climbed to his feet, dusting debris from his clothes, Wong concluded that things were not going according to plan.

“Stephen, get up.”

“Wooonnng.”  His name was drawn out plaintively, if somewhat muffled by the fact that it was being uttered face down against the basement floor.  “I can’t feel my nose. I’m going to lay here and freeze. Consider this my formal resignation.”

_The Vishanti grant me patience._  “Stephen, if we don’t remove the frost spirit from the Sanctum’s heating system, it may grow powerful enough to escape into the city.  Which is already experiencing record low temperatures. Do you want to be responsible for New York turning into a frozen wasteland incapable of sustaining life?”

With an over-exaggerated groan, the other sorcerer pushed himself up, coming to rest cross-legged on the chilled concrete.  “Fine. Okay. So trying to corner the little pest didn’t work. What if we try to lure it into a trap instead? It’s attracted to warmth, right?  So we build a magic cage, conjure a flame, and we’re good to go.”

Wong stared at his colleague, utterly nonplussed.  “It is hardly that simple. This is an ancient creature, clever and powerful.  It will not be caught by the equivalent of a...mystical mousetrap!”

Stephen’s smug grin when it did, in fact, turn out to be that simple was reminiscent of the proverbial cat who swallowed a canary.  Although it was somewhat marred by the shivers that wracked both men as they stood, hands held aloft to create the glowing blue cage surrounding their very unwilling prisoner.

At Stephen’s nod, Wong released the spell, turning swiftly to create a portal leading to an eerily shadowed landscape.  Snow dunes stretched to the horizon, a line of gnarled evergreens atop a nearby ridge the only interruption in the bleak vista.  

“Quickly.”  Wong’s fellow sorcerer did not need to be told twice.  Stepping through the portal, which snapped closed behind him, Stephen gently lowered the sparking blue cage of eldritch magic, and opened a door facing the desert of snow.  The frost spirit _squeaked_ , then shrunk.  With another high-pitched yip, it fled, white tail flashing against the white of the snow before rapidly disappearing altogether.

Stephen cautiously rubbed his hands together, and heaved a shuddering breath that hung on the freezing air in a cloud of invisible ice crystals.  “You’re welcome, New York. Come on, let’s go home. We still have a heating system to overhaul.”

But Wong stopped him, a hand landing on his companion’s elbow without looking as he gazed upwards.

“Peace.  Before we leave, Stephen...look up.  Tell me, what do you see?”

Wong ignored the somewhat exasperated glance the other man shot him, before he obliged by turning his eyes towards the heavens.  For a moment, both watched the lazy wheeling of galaxies overhead, their lights brilliant pinpricks against a velvety dark sky.

“They are beautiful.  I see the stars, Wong.  Light that left flaming balls of plasma tens of thousands of years ago, and only now are we seeing it.”

Wong nodded thoughtfully.  “I see magic, Stephen. Magic is science that makes us wonder, that we do not yet have the language to describe.”

Stephen’s laugh rang like bells in the frozen silence.  “Heretic! You have the soul of a poet, Wong.”

Wong looked over at his friend.  Stephen’s eyes were squinted slightly against the biting wind, and his cheeks and nose were ruddy with the cold.  The Cloak was wrapped snugly around his shoulders, its corners folded tightly across its chosen. Despite the bitter chill and the task awaiting them back at the Sanctum, the other man was grinning.

“Come on, Mr. Whitman.  I hope you’re as good with a pipe wrench as a pen.  We have a hot date with a boiler this evening.”

“Stephen, that was truly terrible.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

\--

Magical accident (Peter Parker).

Wong strode briskly through the detritus of the battle.  Well, as briskly as one could stride, over slabs of jagged concrete and bent rebar.  It was as if a giant had been playing pick-up-sticks with half a city block. Making his way carefully around the remains of a red store awning, he heard the object of his search call out.

“Master Wong, sir!  Over here.”

Peter Parker appeared to have survived the day’s events relatively unscathed.  To prevent recognition, he must have doffed his suit, although Wong noticed a discrete device nestled on the boy’s chest beneath his plaid overshirt.  Wong frowned at the worry marring Peter’s features, although he was somewhat reassured by the absence of any obvious danger.

Around them, other members of the Avengers moved purposefully but calmly, directing emergency responders and checking the area for overlooked civilians.  Wong did not see Stephen among them.

“Hi Mister, er, Master Wong!  Thank you for coming! We, uh, I kinda have a problem that I was hoping you might help with.”  The rapidity with which the boy spoke made Wong take a deep breath in sympathy. He was about to instruct Peter to tell him (calmly) what was wrong, when he felt something brush against his ankles.

The cat was all black fur and long limbs, looking more like a stray than any person’s pet if not for the red velvet collar adorning its neck.  It wove dexterously between Wong’s legs without tripping him, then canted its head up to stare at the sorcerer with yellow-green eyes.

Wong squinted at the cat suspiciously, a half-formed thought niggling in the back of his mind.  Shaking his head to chase the thought away, and ignoring the cat (picking up strays was more Stephen’s purview), he returned his focus to the boy standing in front of him.  Peter shifted his weight rapidly from foot to foot, hands hidden behind his back.

“What sort of problem, Mister Parker?”

“Umm.  Well, we were fighting this evil sorcerer, who was doing magic like you and Doctor Strange, although not as well as you!  But it’s hard to fight magic without magic, so I thought it would be a good idea to call Doctor Strange for help. Which he did.  Help, that is. He and the other sorcerer sort of had this duel. You know that scene in Harry Potter where Harry and Voldemort face off, and their wands get stuck?”

Wong did not in fact have any idea what Peter was referring to.  His expression must have conveyed this, as Peter swallowed nervously.

“Uh, anyways, it isn’t that important.  They both cast a spell, I guess, at the same time.  And there was this big flash of light! Doctor Strange’s spell definitely worked, because the evil sorcerer got knocked out.”  Peter pointed to the other side of the street, where Wong now noticed a clearly disgruntled and possibly evil individual in elaborate robes, sitting bound on the curb.

“I see.  And Stephen?”

“Well, that’s the problem.”  Peter rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Meow.”

Wong started.  The blasted cat was sitting like a miniature Sphinx immediately to Peter’s right, perched on an overturned post office box.  The niggling thought was back. Wong stared at the cat. The cat stared back, its yellow-green eyes narrowed.

“Mister Parker.  Please tell me that Stephen is not that cat.”

A hand patted Wong’s shoulder, and he nearly started again.  “Hole in one.” James Rhodes smiled, and gave Wong’s shoulder another sympathetic pat.  “Your job may actually be harder than mine. Good luck with that.”

Shaking his head, Wong heaved a deep sigh.  This was why he disliked Mondays. Dimensional rifts, alien invasions, colleagues being turned into housepets...they never ended well.

“Do you think you can turn him back into, you know, a person?”  Peter’s concerned inquiry drew his attention back to the matter at hand.  “I feel awful that I asked for his help, and then, well, this happened.”

Rolling up his sleeves, Wong took a decisive step forwards.  “Yes. Fortunately, there are a limited number of options for this particular type of spell, so it should be relatively straightforward to identify the one responsible and undo it.  Now, Stephen, I need you to stay still. This shouldn’t hurt.”

Wong knew that as a human being, Stephen Strange had a remarkable tolerance for discomfort, as well as a medical professional’s typical lack of squeamishness.  These characteristics were apparently not well preserved when in feline form. With a yowl, the little black cat scaled a startled Peter, coming to rest in the boy’s arms.  Instinctively, he cradled the furry creature, turning away to shield it slightly from Wong’s advance.

“Master Wong!  You scared him!”

Curling protectively over his tiny burden, Peter looked almost betrayed.  At Wong’s side, Rhodes let out a laugh. “Oh, your job is definitely harder.”

Wong pinched the bridge of his nose.  He really hated Mondays.

\--

Poison (Wong).

Dawn seemed a long way away.  And yet it was, Wong knew, potentially not long enough.

Outside the little hut, the faint sound of chanting and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through the night air.  Inside, the flickering flames of a tiny rusted lantern cast twisting shadows over a bare earth floor and rough thatch walls.  Flimsy as they were, those walls held the occupants of the hut more securely than iron bars.

They had been so very close.  Relic retrieved and nearly back to the dimensional gateway, when they’d been fallen upon by a war party of the local denizens.

_“Wong, look out!”  A whirling mandala of light spun past the sorcerer, who watched as it knocked the spear away from its unerring trajectory towards his back._

_But that spell had cost Stephen, and Wong turned at the startled gasp.  His friend stared in bemusement at the dart held between his fingers, before they suddenly fell nervelessly open.  The Cloak braced its chosen against his sudden slide towards the ground. Its collar patted Stephen’s cheeks. Receiving no response, the red fabric drooped sorrowfully._

_Wong froze as something sharp dug against his side.  “Do not move, interloper. You will be returned to the village, and brought to judgement.”_

_“Is he dead?”_

_The still unseen foe chuckled darkly.  “No, although he may not last until morning.  I would not concern yourself unduly; neither of you will live beyond the dawn.  Judgement has yet to be rendered, but let it be known that we do not take kindly to interlopers.”_

_Wong nodded stiffly.  Then he locked his gaze on the Cloak meaningfully.  Its edges perked. Knowing there would be a reckoning for his actions, he called out, “Go!  Get help!”_

_As pain exploded behind his ear and he fell to the ground, he saw a flash of red dart away through the woods, several warriors in pursuit._

Wong had woken on a rough straw pallet.  Without sight of the stars, assuming he could even read their movements across this alien sky, he had no idea of how much time had passed.  The Cloak was nowhere to be seen, and he had been relieved of all possessions, including his sling ring. A low moan drew his attention to the huddled shape on the hut’s second pallet.

Although Wong lacked his colleague’s medical training, Stephen did not look well.  His face was ashen, and sweat beaded along his brow. He was shivering, but Wong could feel the heat radiating through his robes, even as his hand hovered above the other man’s shoulder.  Stephen’s eyes moved rapidly beneath his closed lids, and he shuddered. Wong lowered his hand.

And pulled it away as though burned.  Superimposed over the primitive thatch walls, like the after-image of a gunpowder flash, streamed a series of images.  Great glowing orbs, a million sickly hues, their dendrites reaching across an endless sea of night. A looming face, giant eyes burning like housefires.  A thousand (and then more) surges of pain: some hot and sharp as a lightning strike, others excruciating and without end.

Wong stared at his friend, realizing after a moment that his own heart was racing and his breath coming in ragged gasps.  Stephen’s head turned weakly back and forth, his hands clutching futilely at the air at his sides, where the Cloak usually hung.  

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.”

With a mounting sense of horror, Wong understood.  Stephen had of course reported to the other masters on the events that had unfolded during his seemingly momentary absence in the final confrontation against Kaecilius.  But he had obviously left out a great deal.

Steeling himself, Wong reached out again.  Knowing what to expect, this time he was able to reinforce his mental shields.  He had heard of (and even used) tinctures that enhanced one’s spiritual and mental openness.  An unfortunate side effect, he presumed, of whatever poison the dart had contained.

Under his hand, Stephen continued to toss fretfully.  Wong did not know whether the Cloak had made its escape through the gateway, or whether it had been able to summon aid capable of locating he and Stephen.  And before dawn to boot, as he assumed that they would not be granted more time than that.

“Stephen, wake up.”  

Gently (so very gently, as those images burned again before his eyes), he shook the other man’s shoulder.  Then with a sigh at the absence of any response, he considered. His friend was generally not a demonstrative person when it came to touch.  In fact, Wong had seen him awkwardly avoid more than one gesture of goodwill from friends and colleagues.

Uncharacteristic it might have been, but Wong’s head ached.  His friend was possibly dying, and they were both doomed to perish in a matter of hours, if a very unlikely cavalry did not imminently save the day.  Carefully, he drew Stephen’s body against his chest, and leaned back, propped against the hut’s rough wall.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but it seemed that the other sorcerer’s breathing deepened, and he rested more easily.  And when, shortly after, he heard a commotion begin outside the hut’s walls, Wong started to hope that they might both see the dawn after all.

\--

Healing (Stephen).

The desert of snow stretched for miles, grey dunes flowing under the moonlight for as far as the eye could see.  The wind cut bone deep. Wong shivered. The stars that had seemed so brilliant (before?) were now impartial and piercing, too far away for their light to lend any warmth.

“Wong.  Hey, I need you to pay attention.  Come on, you’re always yelling at me to pay attention.  Well, not yelling with your voice. More with your glare.”

Wong listened, although it was hard to focus because of the cold.  It burrowed under his skin, and he felt his blood become sluggish and his heart slow.

“Okay, that is definitely not paying attention.  Boy, you’ve picked a heck of a memory to get stuck in.  Just hold on.”

Stephen--that was Stephen’s voice--wasn’t making much sense, although Wong thought that he might be used to that.  It was getting very hard to think at all, actually.

The warmth started as a faint glow, pulsing in a pleasant susurration against the snow.  It built slowly, like a log catching fire and then burning steadily. He felt as though he were wrapped in the warm embrace of a cherished friend.

The cold began to recede, and with it the fog that had blurred his thoughts.  Wong remembered this place, where he and Stephen had released a troublesome frost spirit.  But he didn’t remember coming here. And where *was* Stephen?

“Right here.  Now, *wake up.*”

Wong opened his eyes.

The sky above him was slashed with streamers of smoke, and around him rang cries and the clash of weapons.  Stephen was kneeling next to him. Ash and blood mixed at his temple, and he was bracing one arm awkwardly with the other.  But he was grinning, and Wong thought he looked relieved.

“Hey, there’s those pretty eyes.  Had us a bit worried after the hit you took.  Things are looking up, but we have a few loose ends.  Think you’re up to it?”

Wong felt the last traces of the healing spell fade, but the feeling of warmth (and friendship) remained.  He held out a hand, and the Cloak levered him to his feet as Stephen stood.

The cold now nothing but the memory it was supposed to be, he met his companion’s gaze.  “Always. Let’s go.”

Finis

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
